


Lady Savage

by Ride It Like I Stole It (Kissing_Toast)



Series: In Ashes Ending [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Not Related, F/M, I had so much fun with the fancy English in this!, I really tried to get the titles and such right but it got too confusing, M/M, british nobility, historical smut, supernatural powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissing_Toast/pseuds/Ride%20It%20Like%20I%20Stole%20It
Summary: When Rosamund Savage is taken in by her great uncle she doesn't expect to strike up an affair with his grandson and second in line for the title, Dean Paulet, Lord Winchester. Even less to be swept away by the mysterious Duke of Monmoth, Lord Samuel Lucien. As he gathers her closer into his dark web, can she decipher the strange link between the Duke and Lord Winchester? Or will she fall to her doom as a pawn in his game?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Randomly written historical fic. The Savages were indeed a real family, as was the Paulet family and the names of the characters are all real members of that family from the late 17th century (though obviously not Dean, but when I found a real Marquess of Winchester I couldn't resist so I backtracked the story around the real title). Duke of Monmoth was also a real title back in the day and the real one was also the first of his line in the time period of this fic. Even the history of Basing house is correct and Highcliff Castle is also a real place, though now sadly reduced to ruin. It's all set in England but I've purposefully avoided giving exact locations as I really didn't feel like getting into that level of pedantry.
> 
> I've fudged on the dates a bit but tried to find some historical fact to base the titles on. As far as I was able to research the titles and ranks are relatively accurate as well, but if something is off please let me know.
> 
> The word sofa is not an anachronism per se, but I was unable to find out exactly how widespread it's usage was in the late 1600's for a piece of furniture we accociate with the modern sofa. That being said the piece of furniture I envisioned while writing this is most definitely anachronistic so I'll just go with artistic license and the excuse that it was a custom piece.
> 
> It's pretty much Mills & Boon meets Jane Austen meets Supernatural with (non-related) wincest. I had fun writing it. Enjoy!
> 
> Parts 2 and 3 will follow.

Her mother's name was Savage. It was told that many decades ago her mother's sister Jane had married a Marquess. Their father was Viscount Savage of Rocksavage, and they had grown up with all the priveledge that his title entailed. Her great aunt had married for position and title. Her mother had married for love; a lowly polititian in the house of Commons, who was fortunate enough to receive the title of Baron Crofts in 1652. The Baron's first wife, Dorothy – Rosamund's mother – died when she was but a child. Her stepmother was a dispassionate woman, uniterested in anything to do with her; never cruel, but always apathetic, doing her utmost to ignore Rosamund, and when deigning to adress her, doing so in the manner of a mistress to a maid.

Her father died in 1677, when she was three and twenty. On his deathbed, he expressed that it mattered little that she was as yet unmarried. He had produced no son and thus the Barony was extinguished - but in secret Rosamund's father had set in motion a plan for her future.

He had contacted the widower of her great aunt Jane (said aunt having sadly died in childbirth producing an heir for the Marquess), as the only connection to her last living relatives, in the hope that the Lord Paulet would take her in. How her father had convinced this stranger to accept Rosamund into his household she knew not, except that much exaggeration had been involved. A male relative needed to be found who could take over ownership of her name and title until such time as Rosamund could wed.

It was these circumstances that found her on a torturous trip towards the estate of Lord John Paulet, 5th Marquess of Winchester. It had been a gift from King Edward VI to the 1st Marquess of Winchester in 1531. Basing House loomed out of the fog like a great stony beast as the carriage rolled through the front gate. A large tudor palace that, if rumour hold true, had once rivalled Hampton Court in its opulence. Now it looked tired and neglected. Ivy covered its walls, surely obscuring the majority of light that could seep through the small window panes.

The Marchioness, Lady Isabel, met her at the great entrance of the New house. She and Lord John had been married but 2 years, and by her countenance Rosamund estimated her to be barely a decade older than herself. Three and twenty to the Marquess's two and seventy years. Lady Isabel seemed a gentle enough soul as she welcomed Rosamund into her home.

Her suite was a spacious section of the 2nd floor, allowing her 5 rooms to call her own. She was in awe at the size of this allotted space. One sitting room, one library, one dressing room, a bedroom and even her own bath. Such lavish accomodations could only be wrought in her wildest dreams, such a far cry were they from the one humble sleeping chamber she had kept on the second floor of her father's small abode.

Rosamund sat at length dumfounded by these great surroundings. Her maidservant, Emily, busied herself with unpacking what meagre belongnings she had thought to bring. Presently the Lady of the house sent word that Rosamund was wanted in the Lord's study. She hurried down, still in dusty travel attire, and met his Lordship with a trembling curtsy. He rose from behind his mammoth desk, coming around it to take her hand and warmly welcome her with quavering hand and voice - a sign of his age. His hair was gray and he had a musty smell about him, but his attire was clean and well kept.

“Your great aunt was a good woman. I am honoured to assist a member of her family in their time of need.” He sat with a groan. “Please, sit, my dear. Tell me of your family.”

Rosamund regailed him with the dire circumstances of her neccessitated upheaval. He listened courteously, allowing her full range to ramble and stutter. His maner soon calmed her nerves and allowed her to regain some well needed composure.

“Apologies, my Lord. I am not often so fumbling in my manner. But the relocation has left me rather spent, and I fear that my social graces have deserted me at present.”

“No need to fret, child. I understand that you will need some time to aquaint yourself with your new home. My eldest grandson, heir to my son Charles, and indeed to me, is staying with us at present. He will happily help your acclimation. It is important that the youths have one another to assist in staving off boredom. Surely you do not wish to spend your days with us old farts.” He wheezed in laughter.

“I thank you, my Lord. Such a gesture speaks volumes of your kind nature.”

“Ah, my dear. We do not hold on ceremony in this house. At the least not amongst family. Please, call me John.”

“I thank you again, John.”

After this he gave her leave to wash before the dinner.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Rosamund emerged from her rooms several hours later, having been primped to within an inch of her life. The Marchioness had no daughters and revelled in treating her like one. In truth she treated her more as a doll one dresses up and down at whim until all garments have been tested and reviewed.

“You look positively delectable, my dear. If I sin in taking pride of the handywork, then let the devil have me.” She beamed.

Rosamund's scalp prickled and ached, and her skin itched, so much brushing and pinning had she endured, and so much powder she wore.

At table there sat the Lord of the house, at one end in the chief seat. To his right sat an old priest in long black cassock. The chair to his left was empty, but in the chair next to that sat he whom she assumed was the aformentioned grandson. A nameless man that gave her no heed as she seated myself opposite. In the vacant chair next to this heir the Lady Isabel seated herself and immediately joined her husband and the priest in animated discussion. Mere moments passed before the food arrived. An array of dishes that could surely have fed every person within the estate's grounds. Yet they were five persons dining on enough to feed a small army.

At first she was preoccupied with attempting to observe the correct etiquette, but soon noticed that this was indeed a casual dinner, if not a casual household, and that the others observed no great manners in how they partook of the feast. It struck her as very medieval, especially the way John's grandson took a leg of turkey and commenced to eat it with his bare hands.

He noticed her staring and looked up, eyes locking on hers, and therein lay a challenge. Rosamund stifled a giggle, nerves spiking at this stranger's intense gaze, and returned her own eyes to the plate before her.

“We're all savages here. Best get used to it.” He laughed and took another bite.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. I honestly find it quite refreshing that none here hold to ceremony for its own sake.” He smiled at her as he chewed. She continued. “My father's station was far lower, yet he insisted on all the empty pomp and glory that it could afford. I assume it came from a fear of losing it, perhaps if he did not show himself worthy of the title.”

Lord John's grandson put his food down and wiped his hands on his breeches. “Grandfather.” he said. The old man heard him not. “Grandfather!” he repeated louder, banging the table with his fist to punctuate the exclamaition.

Their three companions hushed and turned to him. “What is it, Dean? I'm in the middle of a very interesting discussion with the Father regarding the state of the ministry.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Our new guest here isn't convinced that we deserve our title.”

“That is not what I said.” Rosamund mumbled.

John looked from one to the other of them, blinking.

“What is he going on about?” He asked her.

“I'm sure I don't know. I am as lost as you are.”

“Dean,” he turned to his grandson, “stop confusing everyone and eat your food.”

To her he said, “Ignore his ramblings. My grandson fancies himself quite humourous, when he is in fact merely afflicted with an unfailing talent for disrupting perfectly good dinners.” With that he gave her a smile and returned to his conversation.

Dean grinned and retuned to his food.

“So,” she ventured after a few moments silence. “You have a knack for speaking out of term.”

“I speak only truths. Sentiments and realities I utter in place of lip service,” he said around a hearty bite of turkey.

“And for speaking in riddles.” She pointed her fork at him.

“I dare to utter aloud that which my peers find inappropriate.”

“Well, then, my thanks for the clarification.” She allowed a measure of sarcasm to enter her tone.

“You should be vigilant. They'll try to marry you off as soon as the season arrives.” He looked her square in the eyes. “Probably to some old bastard not far from his grave.”

“I have had no proper debut. It would be out of form.”

“No, they'll try. My _grandmother_ fancies herself quite the cupid in the wings.”

“And quite the expert on beauty.” Rosamund held back the dryness of her words as best she could.

“That too.” Dean grinned.

“How is it that she has not gotten her claws into you?” At his flat look she continued. “Your clothes are finely tailored but not well kept, you do not keep yourself well groomed, and keep your hair shorn while refraining from using a wig. You rectify nothing of you appearance with powders and scents. You even neglected to retie your cravat before joining us to dine. Now I may be the lowly daughter of a Baron, but even I can see such evident signs that must surely mark you as a bit of a deviant within your peerage.”

At the last comment a certain look crossed his face. Gone as another grin replaced it.

“You deduced all of this within an hour of meeting me. I am shocked,” he said with mock concern, “and impressed,” he added, softening the grin to a smile. “I do as I wish. A freedom allowed me by my peerage, as you call it. And right now I wish to remove myself from this table and take some air on the grounds.” He stood with a belch. “Do you wish to join me?”

Rosamund hesitated only a moment. “I do.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks went by. The same routine of relaxed dinners and post meal walks took up Rosamund's evenings. Her days were vested in the assiduous attentions of the Lady Isabel. She was measured for new, more lavish dresses. Cosmetics were procured and she was to be turned out in a few months time as a debutant. As a ward of the Paulet family, with all the status and reputation that entailed.

Rosamund had grown fond of Lord John's grandson over the weeks. After the lord and lady retired she and Dean would sit for hours in the library, getting drunk and discussing the most inappropriate litterature. One night the inebriated debate had ended in fervent kisses by the light of the fire. No promises were made and no expectations uttered. It was a dalliance that served no purpose other than to alleviate their mutual boredom. If her feelings were becoming somehow displaced she repressed it to her core, brooking no romantic notions. If his feelings were moving along a similar path he let none show. And four months after her arrival at Basing House she found herself a rival for the affections of every eligible nobleman in the land.

The notoriety of Rosamund's debut was fueled primarily by her advanced years – most young ladies had their coming out a good half decade earlier – but also by her background and questionable right to debut under the title of her great uncle the Marquess. Much was whispered behind curtain and column, behind a well placed fan or simply spoken in the open where she was sure to hear. In truth only a small portion of her heart grew heavy at these snide remarks and their implicated detraction of her character. The ball was drawing to a close and she had retreated to a curtained alcove in a dimly lit corner to observe without being seen. She had barely danced with anyone and those few who had braved the waters with her, bowed out without a second glance as soon as the song was over. So tired was she of the awkward conversing and malignant glances from every part of the room that she sequestered herself in that hidden alcove to remedy the notoriety as best she could. No more than thirty minutes had she sat there in peacful contemplation when a figure slinked in and presumptuosly drew the curtains to behind him. He was tall and statuesque as he stood not a foot from her. The one sputtering flame struggled to reveal his features as he seated himself opposite. She surmised that he would be able to make out as little of her own face in the failing light.

“So, you're the one they are all whispering about in such reprobate tones.”

His voice seemed a disembodied thing, rushing through the small space like a ghost fluttering across her skin - making her shudder.

“May I have the identity of your assumptive self before I damn my good standing even futher?”

A breath of laughter drifted around her, like a feathered touch.

“Damned you'll only be if what they speak is truth.”

“But Sir, a rumour anchored surely holds equal sway to any firmly held truth. For if all believe it, then which cry of opposition could alter that conviction?”

Again that spectral laughter sounded. Her companion leaned forward, the flame casting an eerie shadowplay across his features. “Lord Samuel Lucien, 1st Duke of Monmoth, at your service ma'am.”

Rosamund leaned forward, placing her face inches from his. She would his improper behaviour with improper meet. “Ah, so it is Your Grace, not Sir.”

His lips curved in a smile. No movement forward, and none back did he make, but sat as if frozen, as if perhaps waiting for her to close the distance or retreat.

“Are all those of noble birth so quick to rescind their manners as and when it pleases them?” She continued in contemptuous tone.

“It is the right of my position, for none are above me save those named Highness. But what birth is yours that you question mine so shamelessly?”

“I thought Your Grace already knew the sordid details of my objectionable heritage?”

“I know nothing but the proprietorial denouncements of your decriers out there. I make a point of never succumbing to the vitriol of the masses. I prefer to gather my knowledge at the source.”

Unmoving they sat, close enough that their knees touched, faces so close that their words veritably fell upon the other's lips as they were uttered from their own.

“My father was given the title of Baron before I was born. I am through birth Lady yet that is not lofty enough to be accepted by this superficial throng. By all rights you need not heed me. So, Your Grace, if I may discontinue this mincing of words... I ask, why are you here? Why are you throwing decorum to the wind and risking your reputation for such a clandestine encounter? For surely all those without have by now noticed that you slipped into my hiding place and have not yet reemerged.”

“If that is you cutting to the chase then I dread to be met by a tirade from your sweet lips.”

Rosamund leaned back with a huff. “Such pretty flirtations will gain you nothing. If I intrigue you so – and I cannot fathom why I would – then treat me as a Lady residing in the home of a Marquess. Cease your cavalier advances. My reputation already hangs by a precarious thread. I do not wish to sever it with inappropriate actions of my own.”

His Grace stood, towering over her once again. “Very well. I shall come to call at Basing House within the week. If as a Lady you wish to be treated then I will endeavour to meet your expectations. Good night to you.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later, and true to his word, His Grace the Duke of Monmoth arrived at Basing House to a flurry of excited speculation. After a lengthy visit in the Lord's study he emerged and, with chaperone in tow, they took to the courtyard.

“You are uncouth and entitled, Your Grace. I deduce from the manservant acting as your shadow that you have made a formal declaration of your intentions. Tell me, how did my great Uncle take the news?” Rosamund huffed out this litany before they even reached the fountain in the courtyard's centre.

No reply was forthcoming, instead he sat, running his fingertips through the porling water. She had her arms defiantly across her breast and stood apart from him which allowed her to look at him properly for the first time. His face was turned, giving her his profile only, the wide brim of his hat casting a deep shadow across his features. Though in daylight, she was again hampered from truly seeing his face. His clothes were fine, expensive yet plain. Largely black in colour were they, giving him an air of mournful front.

“He was delighted.” Those happy words sounded like a curse coming from the Duke's lips as he turned to her, eyes gleaming from out the umbra across his face. The sun shone such that she was partly blinded by it, lending a depth to that obtruding darkness, filling her with a moment's frigidity.

“It does not seem so, as you recount it...” She supressed a shiver, moved to sit by him and softened her tone. “So... You truly wish my hand in marriage then?” She dipped my hand into the cool water, near his, swirling it around distractedly.

“I suppose I do...” He didn't look up.

“Oh, Your Grace sets my heart aflutter with such passionate declarations of love.” Rosamund spoke wryly.

His Grace laughed, then met her gaze. “Love? Do you wish there to be love?”

“I...” Here she hesitated. “I have not reflected overmuch on the matter. I believe I would want to be loved, by the man to whom I was married. And conversely I would hope to marry one I loved.”

“Such dreams are folly. You live under the title of the Marquess now. Here marriage is a thing to be negotiated, a pact between great powers to further their mutual wealth and favour. You will find that love is very seldom considered.”

“You speak of love as some rare creature that exists only in myth. Surely with your position you could marry for love?”

“No. I fear love is an emotion beyond my cold heart; both given and received. I wish merely to find a wife that I do not hate.”

“My, how Your Grace has a low opinion of himself.”

“As _you_ have a low opinion of me.” He countered with a small smile.

“That I do. But if I would know you better, perhaps that opinion could change.”

“I offer you position and wealth. As Duchess you would no more have to watch your step amongst those snivelling detractors.”

“A fair point, Your Grace. But let me meet your bluntness with my own. I have known you but a few days. In that time nothing in your behavior has sparked more than curiosity. I wish to know if you have any redeeming qualities. In short, Your Grace, you intrigue me, nothing more.”

“That, a least, is better than disdain.” He entwined his fingers with hers under the water's surface. “If you truly wish to know me then know me you shall.”

She snatched her hand back, suddenly fearing she had heard a darker meaning in his words. One that indicated misconduct enough to destroy them both. She glanced at the manservant several yards yonder.

“We have eyes upon us. Let us walk.”

She led him out the gate and onto a wooded path. Here the sun filtered softly through overhead foliage. The narrow trail twisted this way and that, taking them around trunks and under low branches.

Details of himself were hardly forthcoming. When she pressed he said only that there wasn't much to tell. He spoke of his travels throughout the empire, of other peoples and customs. At her insistance he divulged the nastier memories of the wars he had fought. No detail was spared and at her unflinching ear he seemed surprised.

“You confound me. I would not expect a gentlewoman to so stalwartly hear of such atrocities.”

Rosamund stopped, turned to him. “If I may be forward, Your Grace?”

“You have been so consistently since our first encounter.” He said with an appreciative smile.

She frowned. “I am not a gentlewoman, nor a fragile creature in need of protection. I am simply a woman. No better or worse than a man. If you wish to court me in earnest, please afford me the respect of one human being to another. Your misguided chivalry will succeed in nothing other than annoyance.”

She stood straight, awaiting his reply.

“Fair enough.” He said. “But before I discard all decorum towards your gender, I would ask something of you.” Here she raised her brows. “Stop calling me Your Grace. I am not my title. My name is Sam.”

“Fair enough,” she mimicked. “Shall we head back... Sam?”

 

* * *

 

After the Duke's departure, a rather inebriated Dean pulled her aside into the library.

“He wishes to marry you, doesn't he?”

“Yes.” Rosamund answered simply.

Dean shook his head, wandered farther into the room, then, without turning, “He uses his charm, like the serpent who tricked Eve. I have heard som blackish assertions about his true character. Be wary of him.”

“What assertions have you heard?”

He turned, eyes red from drink.

“He's had a myriad lovers.”

“All men have lovers...”

“But how many of them dispose of those lovers like plague ridden corpses? He has more wealth than God. Richer even than the King. His illicit ventures make him richer still. And he pays no heed to how much blood is spilt in gaining it.”

“All of this is mere conjecture.” Rosamund returned in an exasperated tone. “I will not be swayed by gossip. He showed me such respect on the first night of our meeting, I shall repay him in kind.”

Dean swept across the distance then, kissing her like one gone years without such affections. She pushed him away gently.

“Don't let him take your innocence.” He breathed, eyes bleary.

She hesitated before answering. “Do you wish to take that task upon yourself instead?”

He nodded minutely.

“Neither he nor you can take something that is no longer there.”

A moment of uncomprehension, then his eyes cleared as her confession dawned.

“Back home, there was a boy of the name Milligan. We had fancied each other for years. We had no prospects and expected to marry. We chose not to wait, and then it happened that my father wouldn't consent to a union. I bore no child and deemed it unneccessary to admit the truth of it.”

Wide eyes narrowed to calculating slits. He leaned in close again.

“Then, if you've already been broken in, no harm can come from refining your skills in preparation for the marriage bed.”

“And if I become with child?” She breathed against his lips.

“Marry quickly, and no one will know.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Lady Savage and the Duke were indeed married not a month later. In a small church on His Grace's estate they said their vows then returned to his home, less opulent but more gothic than Basing House. Highcliff Castle stood like a blackened tooth out of the surrounding cliffs. The weathered stones spoke of battles fought and blood spilt. Inside it was sparsely furnished. Most rooms had stone walls, floors and ceilings. Drapes, hung to help keep the warmth, depicted death and destruction.

In the great hall a hearth was set into the wall, higher than the Duke was tall, twice wider still and deep enough that one could roast an oxen over the flames. This was the only room whose walls were entirely covered with heavy tapestries, two narrow windows let in barely enough light to make out their themes. The fire had been built high and emanated enough warmth that the room felt cozy, despite it's size. A Persian carpet, as large as the fireplace, covered the floor before it. An overstuffed sofa, of such proportions that it could comfortably sleep two grown persons, stood centered on the carpet. Covered in fine pelts it was and a small table stood between it and the hearth. Against one wall was an oversized writing desk, cluttered with parchments.

She stood in the room, marveling at the sheer scale of it all when the Duke entered behind her. He stayed at her side, directing his gaze to the same portion of taperstry that she currently inspected.

“Did you expect giants when you purchased the furniture?” She asked with a smile.

He chuckled. “No, but I have had the luxury of living with only my own tastes for quite some time. I enjoy the space. I often sleep in here, if I have been working late into the night.”

“Well, at least we shall both have room to sit in front of the fire.”

“Come, wife. I shall show you to our room.”

“Our?” She questioned as he led her to the upper floor.

“I have few rooms, and it is my belief that a wedded couple should share a bed.”

“How very modern of you.”

He opened a heavy oak door onto a room half the size of the great hall. It was still exeedingly spacious. A large carved bed stood raised against the centre of the opposite wall. Three narow windows on the right wall looked out over the trecherous cliffs, and a blazing hearth, this one oversized as well, was on the left. It set an undulating glow across the room, leaving deep shadows in the farthest corners.

The bed was covered in more pelts. A sturdy wooden frame held heavy velvet drapes. Larger pelts lay in a halo on the floor around it. It looked inviting after the long day and considerable journey from Basing. Her coffers had already been carried in, all three stood on a plush rug under the windows. Outside the light was fading, grey sky turning black in the approaching night. A sudden chill ran through her. The coming dark brought with it Dean's warnings. She shook them off.

“Do you wish to dine before retiring?”

“No, but I would like some wine.”

The Duke procured a bottle of claret from a low cupboard by the door, along with two glasses. He poured out a healthy measure in each and handed her one, then moved to close the door with a heavy thunk, sound akin to a clap of doom in her ears. She spun around to find him leaning against it. His eyes stayed on hers as he raised the ruby liquid to his lips.

She mirrored his action, wondered at the richness of the wine. No sooner had she swallowed a mouthful than she felt it's effects rush to her head, threatening to erase her equilibrium. He saw this and moved to steady her.

“You should lie down. The wine does not agree with you.” His hand snaked around her neck, bracing her suddenly wobbly spine.

She turned and went to the bed, his hand never losing contact with her skin. Before ascending the steps he stopped her, unlaced her heavy dress and let it fall around her feet. Her stays followed in short order as she stepped out of her shoes. Now standing in naught but her shift and stockings she felt as one rooted to the ground, unable to move. He took the glass from her, set it down with his own and when he returned his lips were a searing heat against her neck.

His arms curled around her, ushering her to lie down. She climbed up among the furs and settled onto her back as he stripped down to naught but his breeches and joined her, settling his shoulders between her thighs. A fire burned is his eyes as he lowered his face to her abdomen.

“Another man’s seed is inside you.” He spoke dark and low.

_How could he know?_ Fear and uncertainty stopped the breath upon her lips. As she opened her mouth to protest, he continued, seemingly reading her thoughts. 

“I can smell it.” He breathed the words across her skin, penetrating the thin shift, as he moved up her body.

“Your Grace.” She began, deferring to his title, but he cut her off.

“Who?” His face was now level with hers, his weight bearing down upon her and that fire in his gaze infecting her with mingled fear and heat.

“My great uncle’s grandson.” Her words shuddered out.

“An incestuous liason.” Then he smirked.

“Far removed.” She countered but the last word was punched out as he ground his hips between her legs.

“Incestuous and adulterous.” He set to a titilating rhythm as his fingers entwined in her hair. “How did I find such a sinful wife?”

Instead of accusation his words held appreciation, nay pride.

“Like attracts like, Your Grace.” The title ended on a moan.

“Stop. Calling me. Your Grace.” The Duke punctuated his words with rolling thrusts.

Words were now beyond her and he went to work consecrating the marriage bed.

Afterwards he lay by her side, naked skin rippling with firelight and shadow.

“Write him and bid him come.”

His words were so offhand that for a moment Rosamund couldn’t deduce who he meant. As it struck her, a foreboding coldness washed through her. “Why?”

A wicked smile was his only reply.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Weeks later Dean Paulet, Lord Winchester and heir to the title of 7 th Marquess of Winchester, arrived on horseback with no entourage at Highcliffe. She met him at the door with a warm hug. His Grace held no more to ceremony than the Paulet’s did, no curtsies and sweeping bows would be required. Her husband watched from the shadowy entrance hall as they embraced, then greeted Dean. A strange look passed over Dean’s face as their hands touched. An equally mysterious look crossed the face of her husband. Then, as a dark cloud dispelled, they retired to the kitchen to eat. 

Despite his rank, the Duke lived a meagre life at Highcliffe Castle. He had only a half dozen servants within it’s walls, each he knew by name and each he treated as family. They routinely ate together in the kitchen as no true dining hall existed in the castle. Tonight they three dined alone.

Dean’s table manners were as usual primitive. Rosamund and the Duke made no effort themselves. It had taken some reminding for Dean to desist in addressing her Your Grace but eventually he relented.

As they took their libations and relaxed before the fire in the great hall Dean's tongue loosened.

“I find this place little changed since my last visit.” His eyes were intent on the flames.

“You already knew the Duke? When were you last here?” Rosamund's curiosity was piqued.

From before them on the floor His Grace chuckled. “The Lord Winchester has not been here for many years. When was it Dean, three winters ago? Four?”

No light reached his eyes but she new the look that accompanied his tone. It was playful, testing Dean to see what truths would be forthcoming. Dean’s eyes shifted to the silhouette of her husband.

“Four,” he replied coldly.

“Four long years without your company. What fortune I married your cousin, that I may see more of you.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And I do so wish to see more of you.”

The conversation had taken a turn while she was still lost several paces behind. Rosamund was not oblivious to the innuendo but could not fathom why such would be directed from her husband to Dean.

She looked from one to the other, their gazes locked in silent battle, one cloaked in darkness the other illuminated in blazing light. Sam reached a hand, ever so slowly, towards Dean’s leg. It paused, hovering above his thigh, before dropping back. The spell was broken. Dean emptied his glass with a trembling hand. Sam pulled her down into a cloud of voluminous skirts, onto his lap. His hand found an ankle and followed the trail up the inside of her leg until he reached it’s terminus between her thighs. She gasped and tensed. In a moment she realized exactly what game he was playing, and also the implications of proceeding. Her wine-addled brain had time for one more thought before being consumed by lust: their awkward glances, their insinuated connection, perhaps all these indicated a past affair, an indecent liason from seasons past? Dead but not forgotten. And waiting for a uniting spark to breathe vitality into it again. Rosamund realized with a start that she was that spark. But she would not be used as a pawn on the chessboard. She would take hold of this opportunity and throw herself to whatever lewd abandon lay in wait.

“Use your mouth.” The Duke breathed against her ear.

Dean’s eyes were transfixed upon them, hooded with too much wine, but he could surely read the lascivious intent on their faces, in their posture. She leaned forward and freed him from his breeches. He gave a shudder as she took him in her mouth.

“You bastard!” He panted. “I swore we’d never touch again. And so instead you set your wife upon me! All so you can take pleasure in watching.”

“You are free to stop this whenever you wish.” The Duke replied casually.

“Damn you.” Dean moaned as she took him in to the base. “You… knew…” His words came strangled between heavy breaths.

“Yes, I knew of your affection for her. Of your adulterous affair. I caught the scent of you inside her on our wedding night. Never will I forget your libertine scent.” The Duke growled behind her. “And now my Lord, I have you here again, precisely where I have wanted you these past empty years.”

The Duke bared her, where she knelt between Dean’s thighs, and pushed into her with a thrust that left her moaning.

“Do you feel that?” He inquired of the other man. “Moaning her pleasure around you, pleasure that cones from my body. A body that once made you scream for mercy.” His pace quickened, her body taking each thrust with a punctuated grunt. Before long Dean spilled into her mouth.

She released him. He slid off the sofa, panting, to take her face in his hands. This righted her so she was trapped between them, the thrusting member of her husband and the wine tinged lips of her lover. His right hand moved behind her, she thought to pull her closer, but instead he took hold of her husband, pulling him tighter against them. His thrusts were wavering now, rhythm stuttering. Dean leaned passed her shoulder, pressing his lips against the Duke’s whose grip tightened on her waist, hips faltering, and then he stilled.

The Duke sat back on his haunches. Her only support now was Dean, who leaned back against the sofa, drawing her with him into a kiss. Rosamund could taste her husband there.

“Please don’t think less of me.” He murmured against her lips.

She pulled back to look at him. “I couldn’t.”

Dean smiled, relieved. From behind her the Duke spoke. “The Lord above has seen fit to provide me with a wife whose tastes mirror my own.” He chuckled. “I am blessed to sin. What luck.”

She turned to him, kissing him passionately. “You should count that blessing every day, Your Grace.” She let his title drip with dark heat. “Take the wine. Let us move this gathering to the bed chamber.”

 

* * *

 

Rosamund awoke the next day with her husband at her back and her lover moulded to her front. Warm between them in the bed of furs, she had no wish to rise and greet the day. The fire had died out during their sleep and only the faintest light shone through the narrow windows. In the dimness she could scarce make out where her clothes had fallen the night before.

Dean had stayed true to his word and offered the Duke no further embrace beyond that solitary kiss before the fire and none of Sam's cajoling had won him over. No, Dean had kept her between them as a bulwark throughout the night. Now in the cloudy light of morning he lay with his head turned from them, as though showing his face in sleep was too intimate a thing. Presently his eyes fluttered open, glinting with anger, the source of which she could not glean. Hi sat up slowly, looked at the Duke.

“Did you enjoy yourself last nice, my Grace?” The words dripped icily from his lips.

The Duke, who had merely been feighning sleep, stretched like a cat in the warm sun. “Not half so much as if I had been allowed to taste more than your lips.” His words mimicked lust but there was an underlying heat of a different nature.

“Good.” The young Lord removes himself from the bed, standing glouriously naked before them as he announces, “Because you will never see me again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it through all that, 'Hi, well done and thanks!' I've got two more parts to this, from Dean then Sam's POV respectively. They will be posted as soon as I'm done with them :D
> 
> Seriously this has been so much fun to write! My first foray into any kind of Wincest (there will be more in the other parts) but I'm utterly incapable of writing a PWP so everything turns into these long, detailed fics, because I'm pedantic that way. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome. I'm happy to get creative criticism but be warned, for all it pedantry and tangents, this isn't really a serious work, just something I had a helluva great time creating as some kind of kinky writing exercise. Cheerio :)


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